Daisy Nukem and Astroboy
by UndeadSpacewalker
Summary: "Jesus, kid. You're wastin daylight pickin fly shit outa pepper. Can't never could. Now I know you're stubborn enough to argue with a wall and win, so..." he hauled Glenn to his feet, "put it to good use for once. It's time to get the f#ck up, calm the f#ck down, pull your ass off your shoulders, paint it white 'n run with the antelope." [Darlenn, pre-slash, Techie!Glenn, AU-ish]
1. Superstition

**_Re AU: _****_Glenn is a techie working on secret-awesome-useful projects. The plot initially diverges when the group is NOT attacked upon the return of Merle's search party. Therefore, nobody is bitten and they never go to the CDC, Hershel's farm, etc._**

**_To Whomitmayconcern: I _****_refuse to write a disclaimer on the grounds of OBVIOUSLY YOU FOOL._**

**_To everyone else in life: I love you. Enjoy._**

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

_In Which: Daryl's lone wolf mojo is threatened and Glenn can't seem to get a break._

_Guest Appearance: Imaginary!Stevie Wonder_

* * *

Blurry, kaleidoscopic patterns inched tentatively along the ground as early morning sun filtered through the forest canopy. The light show was accompanied by its usual soundtrack. Trees whispered the meaning of inanimate life in sub rosa colloquies as local wildlife underwent circadian reanimation. Unflappable birds opened their act with an habitual trilling chorus. All were unaffected, unconcerned and uncomprehending of the fact that human undead had been walking the earth for sixty cycles of this moment.

Self-awareness began to infuse the scene, touching the sun and the trees and the wind, observing and redefining. After a short time, another joined it, then another. They fed off each other and expanded, coalescing, permeating the area.

Glenn zipped up his tent with a cracking yawn, squishing down sleep-crazed hair as he put on his hat. Scratching his forehead with the base of the brim, he let his gaze wander over the camp. Dale had just crested the RV for morning watch, floppy hat and rifle in tow. Amy&Andrea were moving listlessly around the fire pit, preparing-to-prepare for breakfast, which didn't amount to much. His stomach gurgled fitfully and he was relieved to see Carol join them, taking charge and providing direction in her soft spoken way.

Others were sporadically emerging and congregating, shaking off sleep. Just another day in the apocalypse.

He hesitated and sat down on a tree stump as he debated joining them. Normally this wouldn't belong in the category of 'up for debate', but his frustration had been mounting over the past few days. He had twisted his ankle (_not_ sprained, thanks) a week and a half ago during a supply run. He'd always preferred solo runs, but ever since they returned empty handed from the search for Merle, Daryl had made a habit of tagging along with anyone going into the city, on the ever-shrinking off-chance of stumbling across his brother's trail.

In this case, Glenn was willing to thank any force in the universe that cared to take responsibility for _that._

For the most part, the run had been uneventful. Except for sympathetic disappointment at no sign of Merle, it had been pretty much ideal in his opinion. In and out, packs bulging with the spoils of a good scavenge, encountering only two walkers that both went down without much protest. Before heading back though, there were a few things left on his personal list to be grabbed. It took a bit of ratiocinative persuasion _("It's no big deal, really, I'll be fine... Please?")_ until the grumbling redneck had gone ahead to get the Land Rover (that Glenn had the foresight to hotwire for the occasion) while he made a quick stop at RadioShack, agreeing to meet at the intersection on the far side of the strip mall.

Some of it was cleaned out, with the battery section predictably stripped bare, but there was a surprising amount of stuff left. He supposed the majority of people wouldn't know what to do with it. It took a little time scrounging through the mess, but he managed to find most of what he needed: not one, but _three_ 6-volt solar panels, AA/A and 6-volt battery holders, A-to-A USB extension cable, blocking diode, E-10 lamp base, switch, soldering iron tip and a large spool of solder.

It was like Christmas.

Happily, he tossed them into his backpack, along with a small project box as an afterthought. Only as he was giving the shelves a cursory skim for electrical tape (everyone wanted tape) did he hear it: a low, growling snuffle. He turned to see a walker slowly emerging from behind the checkout desk, its stained uniform polo sporting a name tag that read STEVEN.

A brief, crazed vision flashed through his head of Steven, Undead Employee of the Month, rasping out a polite how-can-I-help-you.

"Found everything I needed, thanks," he offered in appeasement as Stevie Walker began to patiently shuffle across the room. Soon accompanied by a fellow coworker who had also been chilling behind the counter and a customer who had been lurking behind the phone display.

Probably time to go.

He spun around and dashed out the front door, Stevie Wonder's _Superstition_ starting to play in his mind's ear as Stevie Walker calmly crashed through the front window in slow-burning pursuit.

His feet pounded the pavement to the rhythm of the beat in his chest and the music in his head. Somehow a mini-herd was now on his heels and growing as passersby opted to join the hunt. So much for an easy run. If he didn't know any better he'd swear he jinxed himself.

Abruptly he tightened the straps of his backpack, strafing to the right. Stevie wailed about devils and daydreams, the walkers moaning in harmony, as he scaled a drain pipe to the roof of the strip mall. It appeared to be walker-free and he wasted no time, sprinting and jumping across the multilevel rooftop, the raw sun beating down and adding an aching throb to the rhythm in his brain.

The edge came sooner than expected and he lurched to a halt, arms pinwheeling as he tried to prevent himself from _running off the fucking building._ He could see the Rover in the street, could barely make out Daryl's face turning in his direction. Even if he survived, he'd never live it down. Just as he reached equilibrium, he looked down and nearly lost it again.

It was a straight forty-foot drop.

Or was it? The first fifteen feet or so of the wall had a design carved into it that looked deep enough for handholds. Roughly ten feet below that was one of those big name signs, forming a ledge. There was a closed dumpster on the ground. He heard a shuffling sound from somewhere behind and there was no more time to think. Closing his eyes, he spun, grabbed the edge and lowered himself down, feet kicking and scrambling for purchase.

They found it and he descended, Stevie having a congratulatory jam on his guitar as Glenn tried to tell himself that this was just like being on a wall at the climbing gym, just a game. Then he ran out of wall-design and forced himself to drop to the sign. It was unable to support his weight and the far end broke off the wall with an alarming scrape, the whole thing swinging down. Helpless, he slid along it, down and out, finally slipping off the edge with impossibly wide eyes. The dumpster flew up to meet him and he yelped, rebounding from the impact and somehow managing to curl his neck and right shoulder before hitting the ground, rolling three times before finally, mercifully, coming to a stop.

He lay there for a few seconds, sprawled spread-eagle on his back, gasping for breath as his heart pounded furiously. Forcing himself to get up, he cast wildly about for his backpack before spotting it beside the dumpster. He gazed up as he slipped it over his shoulders, marveling at what the hell had just happened. Besides general soreness, he wasn't even seriously hurt.

A deafening honk caused his whole body to flinch. He looked. The Rover was still there and Daryl was scowling and shit, where did all those walkers come from? He headed immediately for the street, running through the weeds that used to be called landscaping, mulch kicking up under his feet. Daryl was staring at him and he met his gaze with a relieved grin, stepping diagonally off the curb, rolling his ankle. He was so taken by surprise that he fell over like a rag doll, bounced his head off the concrete, and promptly passed out.

It was hours later back at camp when he awoke, mortified to learn that after _all that_ he had somehow managed to knock himself the fuck out _twenty feet from safety_ to an audience of 20+ walkers and one chronically unamused redneck. Daryl had apparently done his usual thing, killing a bunch of stuff and saving his ass. He'd never know exactly how close of a call it was because of the redneck's habitual understating of his own heroics, but Daryl had pretty low standards of personal danger and he was being even more churlish than normal. All in all, bit not good.

On the positive side (which Glenn preferred), his brains were not leaking out of his head and his leg had not fallen off. In fact, he wasn't concussed and his ankle was barely swollen. It could have — and if he'd gone solo, would have — gone down much, much worse.

The group had been terribly understanding about it and for a few days he actually enjoyed the fussing. But it had been almost two weeks since then. Two weeks of not being allowed to go on supply runs _("You can't run")_, not being allowed to go on watch _("You can't climb up or down"),_ not being allowed to watch the kids _("You can't go after them when they wander or help them if they get hurt"),_ not allowed to do laundry _("How will you get to the quarry?")._

Barely allowed to pick his nose or wipe his butt.

At first it was nice, then it was annoying, then it was irritating. Now? Now it was bordering on insulting. His ankle was fine but everyone was still treating him as if he were an invalid. No, more than that, an invalid child.

The only one who hadn't was Daryl.

To be fair, he hadn't said or done anything at all really.

Sure, Glenn noticed a few disapproving frowns if someone happened to be coddling him within a ten foot radius, but that wasn't often. Mostly the man kept to himself, heading into the woods for days at a time and returning with piles of miscellaneous dead animals. These would be dumped silently by the fire pit before he retreated back to his tiny separate camp that was set further back into the woods. He would head out with Shane or Rick for supply runs. Sometimes he would watch them around the fire at night from afar.

Wasn't he _bored?_ Glenn wondered what exactly happened during these hunting trips of his. Maybe... Hm.

The sounds and smells of the here and now flooded in as he returned back to the present and rapidly blinked away his memories. He rose from the stump stiffly and unzipped his tent, waist and up disappearing inside before popping out a few minutes later, along with his backpack. After double checking its contents, he zipped both pack and tent shut and walked resolutely past the fire pit, past the RV, past the slew of tents and made his way to Daryl's camp, pointedly ignoring the curious looks being sent his direction.

Last night he had overhead Carol mention offhandedly that they were getting low on meat, within Daryl's hearing range. This was intentional, of course, and all involved knew he'd head out for more in the morning.

Glenn was relieved to see he had gotten there in time, as Daryl was sitting beside his personal smaller fire pit, still finishing preparations. Crossbow appeared cleaned and oiled, the nearby whetstone indicating freshly sharpened knives. He watched as the older man took a bite of jerky meat before folding the rest into a cloth that disappeared into the pack. A swig of water was taken from a canteen before quickly following the jerky. Knife into sheath, check.

Glenn shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, uncertainty gripping him now that it was time to verbalize his presence. Hands slipped into pockets, chin tucked down imperceptibly.

"Hey, Daryl."

The man grunted without looking up.

Glenn shifted again. Fidgeting fingers plucked at loose threads, absently unravelling his pockets, an action he would regret when he realized it later.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

Daryl stood and smoothly slung both pack and crossbow over his shoulder before turning away and heading toward the treeline.

"Fixin to go huntin," he tossed over his shoulder, statement clearly intended to be both his first and last in this exchange.

"Mind if I join you?"

That pulled him up short. Glancing back at the Asian from the corner of his eye, Daryl snorted derisively. "Kid, you'd be bout as useful as tits on a tree."

Mild amusement bloomed involuntarily within him as Glenn's face contorted in a volley between umbrage, bewilderment and mild disgust. Almost-smirking, Daryl leaned his left side against the nearest tree, crossing his bare arms over his chest.

"Sides, thought you was layin up today."

That made the kid bristle. "My ankle is fine. It wasn't even a real sprain and it's been weeks! I offered to keep watch, babysit, even the laundry! It's driving me crazy sitting on my butt all day. I'm totally healed now!"

The reply was a single raised eyebrow.

"Seriously, look!" he demanded, voice raising, and proceeded to stomp the dirt vehemently with his recently injured leg which, to be honest, didn't feel like sunshine and roses.

Daryl scowled and was by his side in three strides, grabbing a handful of his collar and hoisting him up just enough to take the pressure off his ankle. Glenn found himself stomping (confusingly) on nothing at all before the other man was suddenly dragging him unceremoniously down the path to the woods. Startled, he let loose a yip that carried worryingly in the clear morning air.

"Th'fuck, Asia," Daryl groused, shaking him a lightly. "It's the bleedin asscrack o' dawn, shut your mouth unless you wanna turn camp into a walker B&B."

"Let me go!"

Daryl sighed inwardly and allowed Glenn to wriggle out of his grasp, frowning as the kid stalked carelessly into the forest ahead of him. "An' don't go off with your pistol half cocked, you'll sulk straight into a walker."

"I am not sulking!"

This reply was paired with one of the sulkiest faces Daryl had ever seen.

He was not impressed.

* * *

_Very superstitious, wash your face and hands_  
_Rid me of the problem, do all that you can_  
_Keep me in a daydream, keep me goin' strong_  
_You don't wanna save me, sad is my song_

_When you believe in things you don't understand_  
_Then you suffer_  
_Superstition ain't the way_

_Very superstitious, nothin' more to say_  
_Very superstitious, the devil's on his way_

_"Superstion" by Stevie Wonder_

* * *

**_"Let us come together before we're annihilated." _— Stevie Wonder**


	2. Stare at the Sun

**_Bit of angst in this one. I'm not a huge fan of angst but it IS the apocalypse. Best to rip the scab off clean and get it over with, eh?_**

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

_In Which: Daryl attempts to pass on his ancient knowledge of the crossbow and Glenn has an existential crisis._

_Guest Appearance: Token!Evil Squirrel_

* * *

"Damn, you really couldn't hit the broadside of a barn," Daryl muttered, looking exactly the wrong kind of impressed as he went to retrieve the bolt. "From the inside." He stooped to pick it up, studied it in his hand as he walked back. "With the doors closed."

Glenn grinned, lowering the crossbow. "Let me try again! But I'm going to load it this time."

"Kid, I don' think—"

But Glenn was ignoring him, bent over with the nose of the crossbow in the dirt as he struggled to cock it delicately, without slicing an arm off. He had been astounded earlier to learn that the Horton Scout HD 125 was a large youth crossbow, a _kid's_ crossbow. Daryl had explained that before the outbreak he used a rifle to hunt large game, never bothering to get a larger crossbow because the size and weight of the Scout was an advantage at short range. Also, disconcertingly enough, the only reason it worked on walkers was because of their abysmal bone density. Even point blank, the bolts would seriously struggle to pierce a non-infected skull.

It made sense he supposed, and explained why the man never brought back anything larger than a woodchuck.

It also made him desperately _need_ to be able to cock it without help.

"Geez," he huffed, "this is like a hundred pounds."

"Draw weight's 125," came an amused sound by his ear.

He tilted his head to see Daryl sitting on his haunches, monitoring his technique with blatant amusement, and sniffed airily.

"Shoo fly," he said, straining with the cord, unwilling to invest full strength or grip in case it went snapping back down.

"You jus' lemme know."

The bastard was downright smug. Glenn petulantly glowered at his hands for a moment before accepting the fact that without calluses or experience, he would continue being excessively cautious and this was going to take him all day.

He nodded wordlessly without looking up. Daryl reached around him and two seconds later the bow was back in his hands, fully primed. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw in determination, facing the squirrel he was attempting to bring down. His last shot had been so wildly inaccurate the dirty little rat hadn't even flinched. Before today he would never have imagined it was possible to be taunted by a squirrel.

Hefting the bow and squinting down the sight, he clicked off the safety and lined up the red dot over that little stinking furry body. This should be easy, it wasn't even moving. Pausing for a moment to steady his aim, he waited until the dot was dead center, held his breath and pulled the trigger as hard and fast as he could.

There was a pop followed by a loud crack. Instead of toppling to the forest floor as he had hoped, the squirrel chattered angrily and scampered up the tree. There was a creaking sound. He cursed under his breath before slowly lifting his eyes in time to see a precariously hanging dead limb breaking completely off with a groan, his bolt innocently jutting from the side.

He had only enough time to think _**figures**_ before he was on the ground with a rotten wood blanket.

Two hands from above freed him from the debris and blue eyes gazed down, squinting with reticent good humor.

He avoided them and made no move to get up. It was like Atlanta all over again. Hot anger and embarrassment burrowed into him. An oozing magma, viscid and adhesive, twin rivers like black tar. This whole world was _wrong_ and there was no single person or thing to blame.

He settled for glaring his outrage into the apathetic blue sky.

"Stop lazin about, Chinaman. Up you git, now. But this time—"

"I'm _KOREAN_, inbreed," Glenn bit out, harsher than intended. "And _this_ is a waste of time."

Daryl took a step back, crows feet smoothing out, eyes turned wary. Glenn immediately nipped the rapidly blooming bud of guilt.

"I know what y'are, man. Ain't no slow leak. What's got your panties 'n a twist?"

"I don't wear panties."

The other man just watched him, expression unreadable.

"It's really not important. Doesn't matter."

Daryl waited.

Glenn could have sworn that goddamn-rabid-mangy squirrel snickered in the background.

He exhaled harshly through his nose. "It's just... You're sort of in your element now. All this survivalist, backwoods bullshit. Don't misunderstand, it's awesome. I'm glad it's your forte because it's saved my scrawny butt. _You've_ saved my butt, which, thanks by the way. Very much. But..." he pursed his lips, "I was going to go back to school for computer science, or maybe electrical engineering. Brainwork, puzzles, those are _my_ forte. Not throwing stuff really far and picking up heavy shit and stabbing things in faces. The old world was where I excelled, it was _my_ world. And it's dead... I don't know what I'm doing here, who I am."

Daryl just listened, a breathing statue. Glenn's cheeks were burning, but he'd always struggled with logorrhea. Too late to stop now.

"I've been picking up components whenever I can for a few projects. Just got the final parts for solar powered battery and USB chargers. But I need to zone in to make them, tunnel vision, you know? That's what I do. Usually end up with some cool shit afterwards. By the way, if you find me a webcam, decent laser pointer, and a C# reference book I can probably make a laser rangefinder for your crossbow. We both know your little red-dot scope sucks.

"Of course..." he visibly deflated, feeling very sorry for himself, "with my luck, I'd probably get a bite in the ass halfway through. If only I had time and space to _think_, if only I wasn't such a klutz that I needed to rely on these things. If only... shit, if only none of this had ever happened..."

He was stuck in a groove now, frowning miserably, eyes glazing over. "If only... if only—"

_"If only a bullfrog had wings he wouldn't bump 'is ass when'e jumps."_

Glenn came back to the present with a snap, gaping up at the man whose presence he'd almost forgotten.

"You said your piece, now I'm givin mine," Daryl said forcefully, running a distracted hand through his hair. "I mean Jesus kid, you're wastin daylight pickin fly shit outta pepper. Can't never could. Now I know you're stubborn enough to argue with a wall and win, so..." he held out a hand and hauled Glenn to his feet, "put it to good use for once. It's time to get the fuck up, calm the fuck down, pull your ass off your shoulders, paint it white 'n run with the antelope."

Daryl drew himself up to full height, hands on hips, staring Glenn down with an intense and daring look in his eyes.

Dramatic silence reigned.

Glenn, for his part, blinked. Several thoughts crossed his mind at once.

First and foremost was that even considering current events, this would probably remain the epitomical WTF moment of his life.

Second was the absurd mental image of Daryl—wearing only a fluffy white tail and the skin his mama gave him—bounding across a meadow with a herd of antelope. This caused the part of his brain conjuring the image to immediately overload, short circuit, and reroute him to the next thought.

No self-respecting northerner would blather on about frogs, fly poop, and antelope during a pep-talk. What the hell did that even _mean?_ It was barely English. Then the man had struck a noble pose and was _still_ just _standing_ there, expectantly. Fidgeting more and looking less sure of himself with each passing moment, eyes sliding to the side...

Glenn decided to stop thinking and grinned instead.

"I don't suppose you have any paint?" he asked, feeling a nervous babble coming on. "Bird poop would probably work too but, you know, I'd rather not if it's all the same to you. Hey, have you ever seen the movie _Naked Prey_ with Cornel Wilde?"

Daryl had the nerve to look at him as if _he_ was the crazy one.

"Here's what you need t'know," the man drawled, completely ignoring him. "What y'did wrong was jerkin the trigger. You can't think of aimin 'n firin as two separate actions, cuz you can't focus on the target when you're suddenly yankin on the damn thing. Even if y'had it right on the dot, it'll slip off innat split second. You gotta think of it as aimin-n-firin, a single continuous, flowin thing. Called the shot sequence."

Glenn nodded, slightly awed.

"Now it takes bout five pounds a pressure to activate th' trigger," Daryl continued, growing more animated as he warmed to his subject. "So you wanna squeeze that reeaal slow 'n steady, like a cat eatin a grindstone. Nice 'n gradual. For you now, accurate shot sequence oughtn't be less'n ten seconds. I want you to pull soo slow," he dragged the words out for effect, letting them roll out over his tongue, "that you lose track o' the pressure an piss y'self in surprise when that bolt flies."

"Heck, I can do that no problem!"

"...I've no doubt."

* * *

_How, how are we off on a tangent again?_  
_Oh, we say what we say_  
_And the poison is breaking our skin_

_Blame, what's to blame?_  
_It's an argument no one can win_  
_Cuz at best we don't know_  
_And it's wearing us thin_

_And we stare at the sun_  
_But we never see anything there_  
_Just the glare has become_  
_All that we'll ever see there_

_"Stare at the Sun" by Mute Math_

* * *

**_If you haven't seen The Naked Prey (1966), then go watch it. Now. Seriously, it's a classic._**


	3. Attic Static

_**Bit more AU here; I stole a scene from later in the season. The setting was too good to resist.**_

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

_In Which: Glenn is overconfident and Daryl does not approve._

_Guest Appearance: Therapy!Walker_

* * *

Glenn followed Daryl through the woods, cheerfully swinging the dead squirrel by its tail.

He had not, in fact, soiled himself upon firing. But it had been a near thing.

The redneck had been both helpful and unhelpful at the same time. After waiting about twenty minutes for the squirrel to return to its original perch (refusing to pick a new target out of principle), Glenn had clicked off the safety, lined up the shot and gently squeezed the trigger as instructed.

Then unpredictably, Daryl was right there in his space breathing things like "steady" and "lil more" right down his friggin ear and possibly trying to peer down the scope with him to check his aim. It was all very distracting. He sort of wished he could turn his head to see exactly what what the man was doing, verify his distance, but couldn't risk breaking focus.

Maybe this wasn't as strange as it seemed. Maybe rednecks were similar to military men, with time spent roughing it in the field desensitizing them to worries about petty things like personal space. Mollified, he pushed the entire thing from his mind and replaced it with a red dot, a target, and his own heartbeat.

"Easy now," he felt in his ear, warm and a little damp. He could feel a mild burn on his face, could feel the ghost of pressure and warmth down his left side, could:

_/!/POP/!/_

_"Gah-shit-fuh!"_

Daryl—the bastard—just stepped cooly forward and away to retrieve the dead animal.

"Damn, lil man. This'n got rigor mortis fore it hit the ground. Nice shot."

'Bastard' may have been a bit strong to describe someone who clearly had good judgment. And who smelled pretty decent for being so filthy, but that was irrelevant. Relevant was the fact that he had bagged The Squirrel. It didn't seem too far-fetched to say he was a full-fledged hunter now.

Challenge accepted and steamrolled.

Despite this, by unspoken agreement, the remainder of the day would be spent in lessons of observation. He was proud of his accomplishment but had no illusions. One squirrel was barely half a meal and they'd spent most of the afternoon to get it.

A bird warbled an unfamiliar call from the left. Glenn squinted curiously in that direction, hoping to catch a glimpse, and (because this was his life) walked straight into Daryl's prone form. The man shot him a dirty look but didn't seem all that surprised, so it lacked venom. He also didn't move. Instead, he ignored the boy standing on his ankles and resumed his pose, head perfectly still and cocked slightly to the right.

"Sorry," Glenn murmured and stepped back. He held his breath, trying halfheartedly to pick up whatever it was that had caught Daryl's attention.

For all he knew, the guy had heard a rabbit taking a shit a mile away. Now he was probably estimating the amount of droppings to determine if it was big enough to pursue. That sounded a bit crazy, but Daryl was a bit crazy, so who knew?

Sound identified, the scruffy statue came to life, looked at him. Put a finger to its lips, turned to the right, crouched, and stalked. There had been a no-nonsense look on his face, implying danger instead of food.

Great. Walkers. Or even worse, a bear.

Glenn reached back to pull out his baseball bat and followed as silently as he could. He winced as twigs snapped underfoot, feeling like a clumsy idiot stomping along and shouting, _'Hello, world! I TASTE DELICIOUS!'_ to every predator within a two mile radius. Usually he considered himself light on his feet, was even proud of the fact. Now though he was coming to the realization that it was much easier to walk quietly in an urban setting. Sneaking through a forest was worse than sneaking across a field of bubble wrap. It was impossible, couldn't be done.

Except that somehow Daryl was doing it. He was like a Native American from the history books. But no, that wasn't quite right. He was more like a panther, a cougar. A graceful, short-tempered, battle-scarred, Native American mountain lion.

Glenn felt a twinge of sympathy for the bear.

This was before he heard the distinctive growl of a not-bear. Thankfully, a singular growl. He tensed and looked to Daryl, surprised to see long limbs unfurling as he rose from his crouch and slung the Scout back. Daryl glanced at him mildly, raised both eyebrows, and strode casually through a patch of dense foliage towards... a cabin? He hurried after him.

Picking burrs off his clothing, he emerged in a clearing with only two immediate objects of interest. There was a small cabin and there was a walker hanging from a tree. There was a walker hanging from a tree. There was a walker... hanging from... He mentally shook himself and approached, halting beside the other man.

Now there was a walker hanging from a tree right in front of him. It was male, hanging from the neck, gibbering and flailing in vain to reach them. He stared at it, agape, as Daryl leaned down to read a note tacked to the tree's trunk.

"Got bit. Fever hit. World gone t'shit. Might as well quit."

Ah. A suicide note. "Quite the wordsmith."

"Dumbass didn't know 'nough to shoot himself in the head. Turns 'imself inna swingin piece of bait." Daryl tilted his head back and studied the walker, musing. "An' a mess. Look at 'im. Hangin up there like a big piñata. The other geeks came'n ate all the flesh off 'is legs—"

But Glenn had stopped listening at the word "piñata". Unable to contain himself, he darted past Daryl and began happily beating on it as hard as he could.

"Come on asshole, where's my candy!"

The walker graurghled in indignation, swinging pathetically like a pendulum, ticking and tocking with each _thwack_ of the bat.

Glenn was enjoying himself immensely.

He reveled in how ridiculous this was, drunk off the cocktail of total safety and terrible danger like a teetotaler after his first beer. Adjusting his grip with eyes narrowed and tongue poking from between teeth, he tapped the dirt with the tip of the bat and wound up for a solid hit... only to find his hands disappointingly empty the second before he swung.

Daryl stood behind him, holding the bat which had been effortlessly plucked from the kid's grasp, and tried to process what he had just witnessed.

"Th'hell you think you're doin?" Damned if he hadn't said the same thing more times in the past couple weeks than in the past couple decades.

The kid scuffed at the dirt with his toes and gave him the stink eye. "Just having some fun."

"He ain't hurtin nobody up there. What, you goin beat 'im til 'e drops onna your empty head?"

The Asian's eyes widened and he spun around to check that the walker was still hanging securely from his perch.

Daryl rolled his eyes, a not-unaffectionate smirk twisting his lips. "Your lady swings don' do shit, kid. Now come on."

He tossed the bat and turned, approaching the cabin. Knowing he would be followed.

* * *

**_[Author cuts down the walker and gives him a guitar]_**

_Don't underestimate the spine in a poor man's back_  
_when it's against the wall and his future's black_  
_All that static in the attic, that's just an old drunk ghost_  
_His chains are rattlin' but his end is close_

_One man's story is another man's shame_  
_I ain't bound for glory, I'm bound for flames_  
_So take to the woods boy, and cover up your tracks_  
_Go away child, go away child and don't look back_

_"One Man's Shame" by William Elliott Whitmore_


	4. First and Last

**CHAPTER 4**

_In Which: Glenn is introduced to the art of hillbilly lawn ornamentation and Daryl's patience is tested ._

_Guest Appearance: none (there may be one in hiding)_

* * *

A short segment of infrared radiation tore through the vacuum of space at 670,616,629 mph, ripping straight through the earth's atmosphere on it's unflinching trajectory. After 92,960,000 relentless miles, it's pilgrimage was fulfilled. It was absorbed, it's particles redistributing to feed it's new host.

Afternoon sunshine flowed unhindered into the glade, a pleasant warmth on the back of Glenn's neck that he refused to enjoy while he fretted.

He had turned his back for one minute—_one minute_—and Daryl was gone. He figured the guy liked him to some degree (let him use The Crossbow, after all) and wouldn't leave him in danger without good reason. But another, nastier part of him figured the hunter was like a sight-hound, sensing something and taking off after it without a thought to anyone else.

Never mind about ol' Glenn. He'd be fine, _alone_, in walker-and-bear-infested woods with no provisions and a bat. He was resourceful. It wasn't like he couldn't scavenge anything useful from a gopher hole or run freely across the treetops if necessary. He was in his element. He'd be _fine_.

Though abundant, his sarcasm was a limited resource and dried up like the best wine at a party. The cheap stuff always goes down better after that and he felt himself slipping into hurt and anger. Because really, he hadn't expected this. What an asshole! They seemed to have been getting along decently. Damn it, this was so typical, why he had trusted him, he was such an _idiot_—and so on.

Glenn was doing an admirable job of working himself into a real fit when he happened to notice the man in question lazily climbing the steps to the cabin.

...Well.

Perhaps he'd gotten a bit carried away; it happened sometimes.

Giving his hat a quick tug, he sprinted the distance and cleared the porch stairs in one step. He reached the hunter's side, breathing easily, just as the man turned his head.

Daryl stood there, crossbow in one hand and doorknob in the other, and looked at him with a satisfied little smile. As if he had been expecting to see him there, as if he had just made a bet with himself and won. Glenn hefted his bat guiltily and nodded that he was ready. The redneck returned the nod, paused three seconds, and shoved the door open with a bang, bow held high and mushrooming with tension.

Nothing happened.

He cautiously entered, quickly checking each corner of the room. He checked behind the door, behind the curtains, under the bed, in the large trunk at its foot. Glenn searched for a closet (there wasn't one) before lifting the rug. He made eye contact when Daryl glanced his way, gesturing to the cellar door he'd discovered. Wordlessly, Daryl opened it. It gave a creaking groan and Glenn winced at the volume. Fishing a maglite from his backpack, he passed the bat to Daryl for a small knife and lowered himself down.

It didn't take long to explore. A few dirt steps dumped him into a tiny store room packed tightly with crates and sacks. He was forced into a crouch to fit and it smelled awful. Not the viscerally recognizable dead-person smell, but almost as nasty. He peeked into the closest bag, gagging as the ambrosial delight of decaying organic matter leaped out and smacked him in the face. Blegh. He puffed out his cheeks and held is breath as he scuttled back up the stairs. Daryl gently lowered the door behind him and handed back his bat.

"Anythin?"

"Nope, just rotten food, few rabbits. At least I think that's what they used to be. Rabbit-sized mammals."

He looked up and was met with a suspicious look.

"Y'sure."

"It's the size of a matchbox down there," he defended, kicking the moldy rug back into place. "And filled with crates and big bags. There's not enough square footage for something the size of a person to hide. And everything was so neat and organized. No way a walker's been down there."

Narrowed eyes held his gaze for a moment longer before the man grunted and walked outside without a word. Glenn rolled his eyes—that was starting to get seriously annoying—and hurried after him.

"Hey!"

To the left, he caught sight of a heel disappearing around the corner of the house. Thumbs tucking into pack straps, he jogged around to follow and found himself faceplanted on the ground with an aching shin. What the fu— No. You know what? This was normal. It took too much effort to be surprised anymore. Getting to his feet, feeling very old and world-weary, he brushed himself off absently and turned to see what he had wiped out over.

It was a toilet.

Glenn boggled.

The porcelain throne, mankind's social equalizer, was sitting beside the cabin in the crab grass, innocently as you please. A healthy bouquet of marigolds sprouted jauntily from the open lid. Glenn did a quick scan of the area, but didn't see any more marigolds. They didn't appear to be wild here. He looked back at the flowers growing in the toilet.

Piñata had been a weird ass dude.

"Short Round! Getcher ass over here."

He found Daryl behind the cabin, standing in front of a 6x4 patch of freshly (relative to the rest) overturned earth. There was a dilapidated outhouse near the treeline that had its own distinctive fragrance. Glenn wasn't sure if it was better or worse than the cellar and concluded that his poor nose was supersaturated with funk and temporarily offline.

"Bout time," Daryl said, shooting him a look that Glenn could have interpreted as accusatory. That didn't make any sense though, so he must have missed something.

"Looks like Piñata had a vegetable patch. Guess we should call him Farmer Joe instead," he attempted a light joke, which didn't come out funny at all.

Daryl continued to suck on his invisible lemon. "Stupid spot for it, shaded lee o' the house. No plants neither."

He shifted his stance and his eyes, as if looking for distraction from whatever had rubbed his fur the wrong way. Then he crouched down, ostensibly (Glenn assumed) searching for clues to this non-mystery in a giant random pile of dirt.

Glenn raised an eyebrow with an incredulous laugh and recklessly decided to voice this.

"Finding any clues to this non-mystery in the giant random pile of dirt?"

He was expecting the man to give him a languid yet scathing summary of why city boys should leave tracking to actual men. He didn't expect Daryl's head to snap up with a crazy face, closed-off hurt mutating to open-ended sneer in the blink of an eye. Glenn's laughter died and he watched in confusion as Daryl stomped away to continue securing the perimeter.

Well. He'd ask if it was that time of the month but he didn't really want his head ripped off.

He trailed after him, cautiously peering around the next corner. On this side of the clearing, a ten foot section of underbrush and trees was missing, forming a clear opening in the treeline. To Glenn's surprise, the ground sloped down at a serious angle into a... well, into a glen. It was parabolic, with the far side having a matching upward slope. The bottom of the shallow ravine had a thick carpet of mid length grasses, with a few trees scattered near a brook that ran lengthwise. It was very pretty. Judging from the fact that Daryl had firmly planted himself at the entrance, priming his bow and scanning the scene below, it was also a very good hunting spot.

Glenn wasn't sure what he should do, so he went with the first thing that came to mind and flopped down next to him, using his pack as a pillow and gazing up into the sky.

"This is a good spot," he said for the sake of speaking. "Do you think this is natural or cut down?"

Daryl grunted.

Okay then.

He closed his eyes, resigned to the other man's mood and allowed himself to enjoy the sunshine. Daryl was breathing quietly and steadily beside him and it occurred to him how rare peaceful moments like this were nowadays. Still boring as hell which he detested with every ounce of his being, of course. But who could say no to a catnap in a sunbeam?

Besides Piñata Joe.

He cracked an eye open at Daryl. "Hey did you see the toilet? I tripped over it."

Daryl bounced his gaze off him and latched onto the distance. "So."

Glenn opened the other eye and shifted up to lean on his elbow. "You did see it. Isn't that bizarre? It's just sitting there! And he specifically planted marigolds in it! It probably used to be inside and when it broke he thought to himself hmm... Chamber pot? Flower pot!"

He enacted the scene more for his own benefit than Daryl's, scratching his chin in deep thought before twirling and stabbing the air with his index finger in the universal '_ah-HA' _motion.

Unbeknownst to the others, one of the primary reasons he lasted so long by himself in Atlanta was his ability to keep himself company and entertain himself. Humor is a very encouraging, stress-reducing emotion. This most recent imagined scenario cracked him up and he burst out laughing at his own joke.

"So."

Glenn forced himself to calm down. "What?"

"Howzat funny."

Aaand joke ruined. He sighed. "I've never seen that before. A toilet is a shit pot and he's using it as a flower pot. It's an absurd juxtaposition, and a _pun, _and it's just so... I don't know, it's funny."

He did not say, 'it's so white trash', which saved his life because next thing he knew:

"Had one in front when I's a kid. Only this'n had daisies."

Glenn's brain had heard words that were too good to be true and froze.

"Wait, wait, when you were a kid... your family had a toilet in the front yard... with daisies planted in it?"

Daryl nodded stiffly. His face began to flush, reflecting the creeping realization that he had just made a grievous error.

Glenn didn't notice because he was laughing so hard. "Wait, wait!" he gasped, the most ridiculous thought ever coming to him. "In the summer, did you ever wear cutoff jeans? Classic redneck shorts, above the knee? Pleaseplease say yes."

Bewilderment and morbid curiosity flickered across Daryl's face. His eyes never left Glenn's as he hesitantly nodded.

_"How's it goin, Daisy Duke!"_

He exploded with an unattractive guffaw. Panicked birds shot out of overhanging limbs. A distant moose was startled. Daryl's jaw began to tick, his face reddened further with a different emotion and his knuckles whitened.

It was around this time that Glenn's survival instincts decided it was time to break up the party and coughed pointedly in the back of his mind. He finally looked at Daryl—_really_ looked—and his stomach dropped unexpectedly to his shoes.

"Did I say Daisy Duke? I meant Duke Nukem! Definitely meant Duke Nukem. Daisy Duke, that was, pfft... " he made the most scornful scoff he could physically attempt. "That's just—I mean that doesn't even make any _sense_."

Daryl was looking at him again, jaw still clenched and ticking, but face approaching a semi-normal shade, caught between amusement and white fury. A fat young coyote trotted merrily across the valley floor, pausing now and again to sniff a particularly exciting pile of scat. Neither human noticed.

"That's just stupid. No sense at all, psshh. Daisy Duke... Duke Nukem... But you did say they were daisies... It's too... "

He blinked owlishly, hoping against hope for compromise. "Daisy Nukem?"

Daryl emitted a strangled, enraged growl that frankly scared the bejesus out of him. Then the man stood and furiously stalked away into the forest. Glenn guesstimated a 500% probability that he was not supposed to follow. With a sigh, he retreated into the cabin and hoped he would survive long enough to apologize.

* * *

_Love lost, such a cost_  
_ Give me things that don't get lost_  
_ Like a coin that won't get tossed_  
_ Rolling home to you_

_Doesn't mean that much to me_  
_ To mean that much to you_

_I've been first and last_  
_ Look at how the time goes past_  
_ But I'm all alone at last_  
_ Rolling home to you_

_"Old Man" by Neil Young_


	5. Where Is My Mind

_**I'm either an updating fiend or making the chapters too small. Pretty sure it's the latter. This one sets the stage for later so don't expect shenanigans/silly business. Seriousface required to proceed.**_

**ಠ_ಠ**

* * *

**CHAPTER 5**

_In Which: Glenn has a good thunk and Daryl is absent (presumably Being Angry and killing small animals)._

_Guest Appearance: none (erm?)_

* * *

Sitting alone in a ramshackle cabin in the woods did not fill Glenn with cozy feelings of security and comfort.

It sucked ass. He was trapped like a rat. Who knew what his chances were if a walker (or six) overheard Piñata Joe's ramblings and decided to see what all the fuss was about? He lacked Daryl's unique sense of mercy and leaving the walker strung up seemed like begging for trouble. It made him uneasy. For a moment, he actually debated going out and finishing him right then. Then he pictured Daryl's reaction when he came back. What if the man had calmed down? Seeing that could set him off again. Bad idea.

What Glenn needed to do was calm _himself_ down.

He dragged the ancient, wooden table to rest underneath the west-facing window (the direction Daryl had taken) and pulled up two chairs, one for himself and one for his backpack. That nagged at the back of his brain for some reason. It bothered him.

Something was wrong with this cabin.

His back to the window, Glenn scanned the interior with a critical eye, trying to determine what was hidden in plain sight. Nothing seemed unusual... he was probably being parano—

It hit him. The chairs, the curtains, the bed. He went and yanked open one of the inconspicuous drawers built into the bedframe and confirmed his fears. They weren't drawers at all, it was a trundle bed. Piñata Joe had been a family man. That explained the suicide. But he hadn't known about headshots, so where was his family now? Hairs prickled on the back of his neck, this was not good.

But there was nothing he could do at the moment, unwilling to explore outside unless Daryl had his back. He should be okay for now. The cellar was clear, the door was locked, the windows were too high for a child. The wife, though...

He cracked open the trunk at the foot of the bed and rummaged through it. Quilts, candles, dishes wrapped in course brown paper, odds and ends. He reached the bottom quickly and frowned. It looked deeper from the outside. He dumped everything out onto the floor and examined it. The wood grain was lighter on the base than the sides. He pulled at a groove in the corner and removed a thin sheet of wood.

What a cheery sight!

Grabbing the machete and rifle (only one box of bullets), he placed them on the table, feeling much better about the situation.

Now to business. It wasn't often he had spare time, walls, and a table and he wanted to get shit done. Opening his backpack, he laid everything out in front of him. It didn't leave much elbow room, but he could work with that.

The first task was to make a soldering iron. It was a very simple thing.

The basic design involved an old Altoid tin with two holes, one on the end and one on top. The case for his rechargeable NiMH 6-volt battery fit snugly inside. He screwed the soldering tip into the lamp base and inserted them both, with the tip exiting the first hole. Pushbutton switch was inserted through the top. What he really needed now was a working soldering iron for the wires but (since that was impossible for obvious reasons) he was going to have to jury rig it. Stripping a bit more off the ends of the wires, he twisted them together and used his precious electrical tape to keep them together as best he could. Then he popped in his (again, precious) battery, snapped it shut, and admired his handiwork. He gave the button an experimental press.

Well. It was a pitiful thing, unbelievably crappy, but it worked and it would hold together. At least until he could use it to make a better one. He didn't have the parts for another though, so for now it was time to scoot along to Task #2: USB charger. He lumped together the components, brandished his new tool, and got to work.

It may have seemed like a complete waste of time to others, but he had his reasons. One reason actually, and it was sitting right next to his left hand.

A smartphone. A dead smartphone. A dead smartphone containing the Wikipedia database, as well as a few thousand technical manuals and history books. A dead smartphone containing 64 GB of information (largest mini sd card he had at the time). The world had been falling apart so he had downloaded it, compressed it, and stored it in an old phone that he'd rooted and stripped for the occasion. Just in case, you know?

He worked a little faster and burned his finger.

* * *

Hours had passed, no way to be sure how many.

He watched, unable to breathe, as the boot sequence initiated, mind going blank with the sheer familiar joy of it. The home screen was right there, staring him down, seemed to say: _Okay, you got me. Here I am. Now what?_

Now what, indeed?

For most of the group, Primary Goal of Life v2.0 was to manipulate their immediate surroundings in order achieve a level of safety and security comparable to their pre-outbreak experiences. They showed limited motivation to learn about the current state of the world or the magnitude of what had happened. Resignation seemed the fashionable attitude, accepting what was and remaining firmly in the present, concerned only with survivalist tasks such as food and shelter.

He didn't know if they thought the answer to be unimportant, unattainable, or maybe too discouraging to face. Regardless, somehow, they were content to never ask why. Sure they'd be curious if it was gift wrapped and left in their tent, but otherwise it wasn't worth the risk.

Glenn could and would not accept that. It could be that they actually had better survival instincts than him, but this life was not worth living, this mind-numbing, animalistic existence.

His mind slid back to the global brain's frenzy before that terrifying cut of communication and was reminded of the words of Obi Wan:

_"I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened."_

He couldn't be content. It was like a black hole in his head, this consuming absence; a lack of awareness, lack of information, lack of guidance. He missed the soothing balm of the digital ether, craved it. He needed proper perspective to be able to grapple with this mess. Macroscopic, holistic, the bird's-eye view.

Wait...

Bird's eye. Of course! Almost dropping the phone in his haste, he accessed the Wikipedia database and swiped in 'satellite imagery'.

Thirty minutes passed.

He stretched out with a _snap-crackle-pop_ and a sigh, blinking moisture back into his eyes. Glancing out of the window and taking a sip from his canteen, he closed out of the database and skimmed his notes:

_Raleigh, NC . . . . . . . . TerraServer_  
_commercial website specializing in aerial and satellite imagery_  
_[USDA, USGS, DigitalGlobe]_  
_*w/ color IR imgs!_

_Longmont, CO . . . . . . DigitalGlobe_  
_commercial vendor of space imagery and geospatial content_  
_[NASA, DOD, NGA, Google]_

_Sioux Falls, SD . . . . . US Geological Survey (USGS)/Earth Resources Observation Science (EROS) Center_  
_primary data capture facility for USGS Landsat archive_  
_*civilian remote sensing/sat ctrl__  
_

Already having narrowed it down to three, the inline perspective allowed him to instantly recognize the best option. Since the circumstances called for unauthorized access, common sense told him to avoid any place that sold their data for profit. The USGSEROS Center—acronyms gone wild—was a civilian research complex. It looked like most of their data and processing procedures had been freely offered to the public, open sourced. Other than precautions from generic vandalism, they probably had minimal security, physical or digital.

True, South Dakota was a light year and a few million walkers away. But it was also... He jumped back into the database for some quick statistics. It was also ranked 46 out of the 50 states by population, making up an estimated 0.26% of the entire US population. Georgia ranked 8 at 3.10%.

Heck even if not for the Uggzeross Center or whatever-it-was-called, South Dakota was way more conducive to longevity than Georgia. It had _10,000,000 fewer people_ than where they were right now. Then he found the population density table and his mind set into stone.

_US State . . . . . . . pop./mi^__2__  
Georgia . . . . . . . . . . 172.53  
South Dakota . . . . . . 10.86_

Each square mile of land had an average of 160 fewer walkers. That was kind of _a lot._

And if he managed get there? Maybe there were still people there, maybe it was even fully operational. But even if it was a dead place. If he got there and the dishes and antennas were still in one piece? If he could get some sort of generator going? If he could activate, access and operate their systems? He could literally see the world. It was an epic version of getting lost in the woods and climbing the tallest tree.

If he stayed diligent and learned the science, the system, he could find the small thriving communities that statistically must exit, follow highways and record all blockages and necessary detours. If he had access to infrared he could even track the herds, maybe study their weird 'migratory' patterns to see if they could be predicted. Walkers had a lower core temperature, so depending on the resolution and precision of the sensors, maybe he could even detect whether or not small, nomadic groups were undead or alive by their heat signatures.

He could see the extent of the damage in other counties, maybe even communicate with the centers overseas that shared data with this one.

His mind was flying, spinning, burning with delicious ideas. The whole thing made him feel revitalized and stronger than he had been a moment ago. It was so improbable. It was ludicrous. There were a hundred _ifs_. A thousand things could go wrong.

But...

Shadows slithered across the floor as Glenn's patch of earth turned away from the sun. He gazed out the window and waited for Daryl's return. Dusk was approaching, the sun a cosmic fingernail clipping discarded on the horizon. It was fiercely beautiful.

Glenn's view was watermarked, two words burned into his mind's eye.

_SIOUX FALLS_

* * *

_With your feet on the air_  
_ And your head on the ground _  
_ Try this trick and spin it, yeah_  
_ Your head'll collapse_  
_ If there's nothing in it_  
_ And then you'll ask yourself_

_Where is my mind?_  
_ Where is my mind?_  
_ Where is my mind?_

_Way out in the water_  
_ See it swimmin_

_"Where Is My Mind" by the Pixies_

* * *

_**DUN DUN DUUNNN!**_

_**Fanciful plot (and no way his phone would be charged that fast with solar) but it's a story, alright?**_

_**Just roll with it and we'll all be okay :)**_


	6. Dead or in Serious Trouble

**_My apologies for the delay, college is kicking my ass this semester. Any and all mistakes/crackness are to be blamed on the glorious intoxicating effects of sleep deprivation._**

**_Woohoooooooooo— [passes out under desk]_**

* * *

**CHAPTER 6**

_ In Which: Glenn is a danger to himself and others and Daryl experiences this fact for the umpteenth time._

_Guest Appearance: #!surprise!# (Why do I have this section?)_

* * *

Darkness had fallen, still but never silent.

This time of year, the choral chirring of cicadas and katydids was a constant feature and the insects graciously shared their talents whether you liked it or not. After enough time, the listener invariably reached that special point at which the brain recognized the futility of irritation, resigned itself to the situation, and mercifully began to report the noise as soothing.

Barely ten minutes had passed since Glenn entered this soothing phase when the air was lanced by a sharp dissonance. His head snapped up and he jumped forward, nose pressed to the dirty windowpane.

Knowing that Daryl was more than capable of looking after himself did not syllogistically translate to peace of mind.

The nebulous shape creeping towards the cabin was a welcome sight. It drew nearer, gait too measured for a walker, and he quickly unchained and unbolted the front door, lifting the (mostly decorative) 2x4 as well. Throwing himself back into the chair, he adjusted the wick of a kerosene lamp as boots echoed on the porch and the door grouched open.

"You're back!" he exclaimed unnecessarily, and grinned.

Daryl was back all right, filthy from head to toe and dripping all over Piñata Joe's frowzy throw rug. Of course, this was barely noticed in favor of the thick line he was brandishing with pseudo-camouflaged self-satisfaction. The thick line which happened to be strung with an unlucky squirrel and all of its distant relations.

Glenn was too ravenous to be put off by the thought of yet _more_ squirrel. He stared at the dead rodents covered in muck and gore and his salivary glands exploded like an old river dam going into retirement.

"You took your sweet time! I'm starving!"

"Tcha! I'd like t'see you—"

But Glenn was already outside, machete and lantern in hand as he circled around and approached the fire pit he'd noticed earlier. It was northeast of the cabin—bit too close to the outhouse as far as his nose was concerned—but there were plenty of split logs and kindling stacked nearby. He set the lantern down on a semi-level stump and started making a teepee of sticks.

"Jesus man, don' go runnin off like that!"

He glanced up from where he was crouched and made out a disgruntled looking Daryl in the dim lamp light. "Saw this fire pit and I'm starving, Daryl. Haven't really eaten for about two days. Skin the little guys and let's _mangia!_ I'll start the fire," he added, with more confidence than he felt as he realized his matches were damp who-the-fuck-knew-why. He blew a gusty sigh—effectively collapsing the teepee—and then forced himself to take three diaphragmatic breaths.

Daryl had that contemplative, scornful look about him again. "This ain't no fire pit. It's a circle o'bricks'at ain't even a circle. N'good lord, quit embarrassin y'self, cityboy. I'll build the goddamn fire. Git outa the way."

Glenn was literally pushed over as the other man crouched down and shouldered/elbowed himself into the occupied spot. He bristled with indignation and glared perpendicularly from his new spot which was... actually quite comfortable.

"Well, what should I do then?" he asked, nestling into the loamy divet he'd found himself in. "I don't know how to gut a squirrel and this doesn't seem the best time to learn."

Daryl snorted, striking flint and shielding the infant flame with his hands. "Go 'head and paint your nails, princess. I'm busy."

"Fuck you, asshole."

Glenn shot him another hateful look for good measure—discouragingly, Daryl seemed more pleased than affronted—before happily whipping out his phone to beat his record at Snake. For some reason, the snake gained six segments at once and he scrolled through the source code with a scowl. Damn, he knew he should have written himself comments.

Daryl used his buck knife to slice a squirrel from throat to tail base. Blood seeped onto his hands as he glanced at Glenn in bemusement. "Watcha doin."

"Hm? Oh nothing. Wrote a little game. Found error, trying to isolate."

"No, I mean," he paused to decapitate the gutted squirrel's mother, "how're you usin y'phone."

Glenn looked up. "It doesn't work for calls, of course. But you know smartphones are just little computers. This one's quad core."

"Thought Rick said computers ain't workin nomore," Daryl said with a frown.

"That's just stupid, all they need is power. I finished up those chargers while you were gone."

"For games."

"Actually, I did it mainly for Wikipedia," Glenn admitted sheepishly.

"But ain't that on the internet? Reckon it's busted now."

"Uh yeah. But I grabbed it before everything went to hell."

The redneck underwent a visible struggle to interpret this in any meaningful way. Glenn couldn't decide if this confusion was worthy of scorn or endearment. Scorn seemed like it would take an excessive amount of energy to reach so—purely for the sake of efficiency—he went with endearment.

"Th'hell you talkin bout," Daryl asked sullenly, as if his words tasted like lima beans.

"Daryl, it's not like the cumulative sum of human knowledge went poof along with the internet. The information is stored in gigantic datacenters around the world. Hell, Google alone has six. Finland, Oregon, Iowa, North Dakota, South Dakota and Douglas. Wikipedia has one too and I transferred the data from their system to mine a week or so before everything crashed."

"Douglas?"

"You know..." He waved his arms around helpfully. _"Douglas._ Get on I-20 West, take the exit for Riverside Parkway and keep going until you see it. It's only ten miles out of Atlanta."

Daryl was starting to look seriously constipated. "Should... should we go check it out?"

At this point, two squirrels were now roasting tantalizingly on a makeshift spit. Glenn sat up to facilitate obsessive staring.

Licked his lips. "Nah," he dismissed without looking away. "Google's security strategy is to leave everything unlabeled and scrambled around, so who knows what you'll find. Could just be cloud storage and besides, they're an aggregator. Nothing relevant to us. Waste of time."

He was graced with a noncommittal grunt in reply but hardly noticed, too concerned with the heady aroma of burning skeletal muscle tissue wafting towards him. Licked his lips again.

"Hey Daryl, I think mine's done. Take it off, please."

"Don' be stupid, course it ain't done."

This was a rational response.

However, Glenn's stomach was beyond the grumblies and while his prefrontal cortex was aware of Daryl's logic, his body was kicked into survival mode. The lizard brain had hijacked the rest of his awareness, emitting a repeating distress signal of: _EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR BAD THINGS / EAT NOW OR—_

And so on.

Somewhere in the background noise, his frontal lobe perused the "Anatomy and Physiology" drawer, dimly noted the role of the hypothalamus and brain stem in this behavior, and wondered vaguely if it applied to walkers.

Licked his lips again.

"I like my meat rare!" he not-begged not-embarrassingly.

Daryl discharged a splutter/cough/throat-clear combo that caused Glenn to temporarily shift focus to him in concern.

"Swallow a bug?" he asked sympathetically.

The older man pointedly ignored this. "Call this rare? I seen animals hurt worse'n'at get well again."

Glenn huffed and raked a pile of leaves together with his fingers before, in a fit of insanity, he snatched up the twig-spit and burrowed back into his makeshift nest. Daryl's eyes blew wide with incredulous outrage and before Glenn knew what was happening he was tackled and having his prize wrestled out of his grip. His pride demanded that he be able to hold onto it for at least _thirty seconds_ and he gritted his teeth, trying to roll over and block access. It may have been fighting a bit dirty, but he knew Daryl wouldn't—

Daryl curved his back and wedged a shoulder between Glenn and the ground, propping him up and preventing him from squishing their dinner. Glenn felt a hand snake around him and latch onto the end of the spit. He was starting to get honestly crowded and panicky now, trying to pull away in any direction, but Daryl matched his movements and continued to stay exactly flush with him.

A couple of increasingly disconcerting moments passed until finally the redneck thrust the burned, impaled squirrels aloft with a triumphant expression. Glenn sulked savagely from underneath him, trying not to notice that Daryl made a serviceable blanket-layer against the cool night air, if serviceable meant better than his actual blanket.

"Jesus, you're like a lamprey..." He instantly regretted opening his mouth and shrunk back, trying to bury himself into the ground as Daryl slowly turned narrowed eyes downward to regard him with a terrifying calm. "I wasn't seriously trying to take it, just messing around! It was a joke! I was hungry!"

"You think I was born yesterday? Squinty-eyed, citified, possum bastard," he drawled in a deep and ominous tone, eyes (ironically) squinting and face creeping lower with each word. For emphasis.

Glenn noted a little hysterically that from this distance his eyes were a darker shade of blue how fascinating it was an interesting contrast to the dull colors that made up the rest of him and—

"I oughta kick your _fuckin ass_—"

Daryl cut himself off with an uncharacteristic yelp, fingers abandoning the spit and digging deep bruises into Glenn's shoulders before he slid down and off the boy.

Glenn watched in horror as his blanket-layer was dragged off of him by a walker. The rotting female had pulled Daryl close enough that it was able to reach the back of his knees, flipping him partially over, pulling itself on top of him, ignoring his legs as it went straight for the visceral gold mine of the abdominal cavity. The walker fucking smelled, it squawked and clung like a demonic monkey in a shit dress as he lashed out wildly, buying time while he reached for his crossbow. But he couldn't it was too far fuckingFUCK it was _too far—_

There was a heavy, indirect blow to the back of his thighs and a telltale squelch. He kicked the walker off with more force than necessary as Glenn wrenched his machete from the back of its skull.

Glenn's face contorted in disgust at the dual layered stink of it. "Why does it—eughh..."

Daryl slipped the bandana out of his back pocket and held it over his mouth and nose as he crouched to examine it. "Damn," he breathed out shallowly as his eyes watered, "bitch stinks so bad she'd knock a buzzard off a gut wagon. An' no wonder," he straightened up and peered towards the outhouse, the door of which was suspiciously ajar. "She's covered in shit."

"Actual shit?"

"Wonder who th'fuck she was."

"Oh yeah!" Glenn looked incredibly guilty and Daryl sighed inwardly. "A family lived here. I think there's a kid too somewhere."

Daryl stared at him for a long moment, then picked up the spit and trudged back over to the dying fire. He sat down. He prodded the flames to wake it back up. He ignored the presence to his left.

"Daryl?"

He ignored the fly buzzing to his left.

"I'm sorry?"

He considered swatting the buzzing fly, which was apparently growing worried and circling closer, pressing the length of its right arm gently into his side.

He rotated the meat.

"Should have told you when you got back and, uh, I haven't been very cooperative today have I? I really am sorry."

Daryl couldn't restrain a snort.

"Okay well, I don't know what else to say so... Just roll that around."

Punkass little... "I'll roll _you_ around," he growled. Glenn blinked up at him owlishly and he frowned. That didn't come out right. "Head, I mean." Hell, that sounded worse. "Your head. I'll roll your head around." Of all the godamm... Unsure of what else to do, he flushed and glared.

"I'll uh, keep that in mind. Is my squirrel ready yet or what?"

He narrowly avoided an enthusiastic swat upside the head.

* * *

_Criminally minded and partially blinded, surviving on minimal sleep_  
_Scars on his face and a stone in the place where his heart would previously beat_  
_Travelling even faster in the wake of disaster and reaching at you from the bleak_  
_Escaping and hiding or simply surviving, way down in the fluorescent deep_

_He's either dead or in serious trouble, ah ah ah_  
_He's either dead or in serious trouble, ah ah ah ah ah_

_"Dead or in Serious Trouble" by Kaiser Chiefs_


	7. Don't Remind Me

_**Over 40 people have stuck with me all the way through Chapter 6! **_

_** My lovelies **_**ಥ_ಥ**_** **passes out cookies and beer****_

* * *

**CHAPTER 7**

_In Which: Glenn makes a plan which mostly fails and Daryl's life starts to get confusing._

_Guest Appearance: Sir!John Daniels_

* * *

Considering the mess he'd made so far, Glenn was determined to end the day on a positive note.

After some perseverant snooping, he managed to find a skillet, a patch of wild onion grass (growing a safe distance from the flower potty), a couple of tin cups and a gigantic, half-full (or half-empty, if you were a downer like Daryl) bottle of Jack Daniels. He returned with these goodies just as Daryl finished up skinning two more squirrels. At the sight of hard booze, Daryl brightened considerably. He immediately reached for the bottle and got a smacked hand instead.

Glenn then proceeded to order a gaping Daryl to take care of the corpse and wash his hands, while Chef Glenn took care of the rest.

Astonishingly, despite the murderous look in his eyes, the hunter did as he was told without a word, dragging the dead woman a fair distance into the woods before disappearing in the direction of the stream. Glenn had just stood there for a moment, nonplussed, before taking advantage of it and getting to work. The meat turned out pretty well and with bellies partially sated, they finally broke out the whiskey.

It would be a mistake to categorize what followed as a positive bonding experience.

Glenn ended up babbling about his plans to travel to South Dakota, which Daryl instantly denounced as "fuckin stupid" since he would get himself killed within a week.

Glenn found this an insulting underestimation of his abilities and told him so.  
Daryl retorted that he was a dumbass if he thought he'd survive that far on his own.

Glenn parried that he was an uneducated, uncivilized monkey.  
Daryl volleyed that he was a dipshit.

Glenn suggested where he could shove his opinions.  
Daryl questioned the fidelity of his mother.

Glenn thought about his mother, turned away and burst into manly tears.  
Daryl took a desperate, gulping swig straight from the bottle.

After this, things took a bit of a downward turn.

Glenn forced himself to stop crying once his nose started running (and he realized there was nothing to wipe it with besides his own sleeve). He tried taking a sip from his empty cup for the third time and heaved a gigantic sigh. Turning to the stump he'd been using as a table all night, he very carefully set his cup down in midair beside it. Depressingly, it didn't float as he hoped. He heaved another exaggerated sigh and floundered for a moment before there was a welcoming distraction of noise from behind. Preferring anger over grief any day, he rounded furiously. Daryl froze like a deer in headlights, bottle halfway to his mouth.

"I shoulda known!" Glenn slurred angrily for the sake of being angry. "Slobberin all over it with your big... big _monkey_ lips. Now it'll be half backwash cuz _apparently_ cups are toooo complicated for Hill-Billy Badass over here!"

It wasn't his proudest moment. If the bottle had been filled with something less precious, it would have been flung at his head.

As it stood, Daryl responded by cradling the bottle closer to his chest and shooting Glenn an acute look of suspicion, as if the only problem here was the implication that he might be expected to share. Glenn confirmed this by holding out Daryl's discarded cup in silent demand. The redneck's eyes narrowed to slits and he mutinously tilted the bottle back, draining the rest of the whiskey in one go. Glenn stared, arm falling back to his side, equal parts pissed and impressed.

Daryl's lips released the bottleneck with a liquid _pop_ before turning to catch Glenn's eyes. He tossed the bottle breezily over his shoulder, ignoring the distant sound of shattering glass. Then he smiled. _Smiled,_ with teeth and everything.

It was pretty horrible as smiles went. Might have been the whiskey, but Glenn could have sworn it looked more predatory than anything else, like he was about to go straight for the jugular. He raised his gaze from that unfamiliar grinning mouth to those familiar blue eyes. They were gloating. They were practically dripping with gloat. He chucked his cup without thinking and it bounced ridiculously off that stupidly muscular chest.

Then Daryl rushed him and rudely threw him over his shoulder like a burlap sack.

Between Daryl Dixon juggling his body and Jack Daniels juggling his mind, Glenn was convinced the entire universe had turned into a kaleidoscope, with himself as the epicenter and gravity set to 'random' mode. His insides were moving more than they should, spinning clockwise while the kaleidoscope he was trapped inside was spinning anti-clockwise and how/when/why did this even happen.

Then he was tossed onto a bed and Daryl was looking down at him and reality superimposed itself.

"Hey!" he protested belatedly, struggling to sit up.

He was shoved back down by a hand on his chest. "Shut up 'n lie down."

Just sitting up halfway had made his stomach do a terrible flippy thing. If he opened his mouth again, there was no guarantee that words would be the only thing to come out of it. Left with no choice, he complied with Daryl's demands and curled up miserably onto his side. Whiskey. Who's bright idea was that anyway? Sleep would be impossible until someone unplugged the turbocharged carousel the universe had decided to take for a joyride.

There were hands on his back, pushing. "Wh-what are—" They kept pushing until one of his legs fell off the bed. He made a distressed noise and they stopped. Tilting his head, he could barely make out Daryl's form, sitting upright next to him.

"Daryl, I don't wanna sleep on the floor," he mumbled, fiercely hugging his stinky pillow. "Why are you pushing me, stop it..."

The hands receded and there was a pause. "Plantcher foot. Spinnin'll slow."

It took him a moment to translate this. Then: "Oh." He shifted to his back and tried it with his right leg that was now hanging off the bed, firmly planting his foot, imagining roots growing from the ball of his foot, the arch, the heel, physically tying it to the ground. Immediately the carousel slowed to a crawl. "Thanks fer unplugging th'universe," he murmured gratefully, unable to see Daryl's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. His little sigh morphed into a jaw-cracking yawn. "Should come wimme to Sioux Falls..."

There was a much longer pause, then an ambiguous grunt came from the darkness to his left. It fell on sleeping ears.

If Daryl stayed awake listening to the peaceful sound of Glenn's breathing for the next hour, it was only because he wasn't used to it. The younger man broke the pattern by snuffling sleepily and shifting, turning over, wrist barely making contact with Daryl's "stupidly muscular" chest.

If Daryl used that connection to listen to Glenn's steady heartbeat—and if his own fractionally quickened its pace to match it—it was only because he was drunk. A microscopic voice in his brain hesitantly asked if maybe, perhaps, the drunk excuse was the reason why he finished off the whisk—

He crushed it ruthlessly and with practiced ease.

Meanwhile, the trundle bed continued to exist but nobody bothered to remember.

* * *

_I like colorful clothing in the sun_  
_ Cause it doesn't remind me of anything_  
_ I like hammering nails and speaking in tongues_  
_ Cause it doesn't remind me of anything_

_The things that I've loved the things that I've lost_  
_ The things I've held sacred that I've dropped _  
_ I won't lie no more you can bet_  
_ I don't want to learn what I'll need to forget_

_I like throwing my voice and breaking guitars_  
_ Cause it doesn't remind me of anything_  
_ I like playing in the sand, what's mine is ours_  
_ If it doesn't remind me of anything_

_"Doesn't Remind Me" by Audioslave_

* * *

**_If anyone gets the crazy urge to, I dunno, leave a review or something..._**

**_GIVE IN. RESISTANCE IS USELESS._**


End file.
